


Whiskey Lullaby

by BreTheWriter



Series: Hold Me Like You'll Never Let Me Go [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:42:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreTheWriter/pseuds/BreTheWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark doesn't know at first why it's HIM that gets the phone call to pull Clint Barton out of the bar...but it looks like there's only one person who could hope to understand what the man is going through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey Lullaby

"Sir, you are receiving an incoming telephone call from an unknown number." 

"Unknown, huh?" Tony rubs his chin. He hasn't had a call from an unknown number in ages--not since Manhattan, almost a year and a half ago now. He feels a slight pang at the thought of that fight, then pushes it aside. "Go ahead and answer, Jarvis." 

"Yes, sir." 

Tony waits the requisite ten seconds, then says, "Stark." 

"Stark, it's Romanoff." 

The voice throws Tony. Not that he doesn't know it--he does, of course--but he hasn't spoken to Natasha Romanoff since they all went their separate ways after the Battle of Manhattan. As far as he knows, she's back at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. Certainly he can't think of why she's contacting him, unless she's doing it for Fury. Although there's no reason for Fury to want to get hold of him at this time of night--it's past midnight in California, and with Fury in Washington, that's three A.M. The man has to sleep sometime. He rallies and tries to play it cool. "Natasha, long time no see. How are things?" 

"They're things. Listen, do you still drink?" 

"If this is your way of inviting me out on a date, I'm already taken, and happily so," Tony says dryly. "Most of the time, anyway." 

"Shut up. I'm serious." Romanoff clearly doesn't have time to play around. "Do you still drink?" 

"No," Tony replies. "Completely sober." 

"Damn." With a _click_ , the line goes dead. 

"What? Wait, what?" Tony yelps. "Jarvis, call that number back!" 

"Yes, sir." 

Tony waits until Romanoff's voice comes back on. "Romanoff." 

"Romanoff, it's Stark. Why did you want to know if I still drank? What's going on?" Tony isn't completely insensitive and he isn't stupid either. Something is the matter and he'll be damned if he lets it go. Romanoff may not be his best friend, but she was his secretary for a while, and that means something. And they were teammates in Manhattan, and that means something more. 

Romanoff hesitates, then finally admits in a low voice, "It's Barton. He's in a bar, drinking." 

Tony resists the urge to quip sarcastically that that is, in fact, what one normally does in a bar. Instead, he says, "And?" 

"And it's a bar in Malibu, not that far from where you are. And I'm halfway around the world. And he needs to get out of there." 

Tony reaches for a nearby pen and paper. "What bar is it?" 

Twenty minutes later, Tony walks in the front door of Smoky's and looks around. This is a dangerous place and he knows it. Not the patrons, or the neighborhood, or the possibility of getting into a fight--not that kind of dangerous. It's the alcohol. The promise of oblivion. Tony's been off it since January, he's been keeping his promise to Pepper, and he can't fall off the wagon now. 

It doesn't take him long to find the man he's come to seek. A man with hair somewhere between blond and brown, smoky blue eyes, and a thick stubble sits at a table by himself, surrounded by empty glasses and one half-full one. He's slumped over and vacant-looking and obviously not taking very good care of himself. Tony makes his way over. 

"Mind if I join you?" 

Clint Barton looks up blearily. There's a spark of recognition, and then he shakes his head and waves at a chair. Tony pulls it out and sits down. "Barton." 

"Stark," Barton grunts. 

"Hey, man, good to see you," Tony lies. It's not that he doesn't like Barton--he does, reluctantly. He liked most of the Avengers that way--reluctantly. It's just that Barton looks like hell, and while Tony might have been glad to see him if they'd been sober and out on the streets, or even meeting up in S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, seeing him like this is not on his list of top ten good times. 

Barton grunts again, then looks up. "What're you doin' here?" he mumbles. 

Tony starts to say something sarcastic--then changes his mind. "Romanoff called me. Asked me to get you out of here." 

Barton laughs bitterly. "Gotta keep me from bein' an embarrassment t' the agency, after all." 

"No, she's really worried about you. She'd be here herself, but she's halfway across the country. Something about a mission." 

"Sure, sure." 

Tony can see this isn't working. "What've you been up to the last year or so?" 

Barton indicates the empty glasses next to him. "This, mostly." 

That's seriously worrying. Tony wonders if the man has had a sober moment since the Battle of Manhattan, if S.H.I.E.L.D. has him under observation, if he's even still an agent or if he's been thrown out. If he even cares anymore. "This about you getting possessed by the Glowstick of Destiny? I know Selvig went kinda crazy, running around Stonehenge without his pants. This your way of coping?" 

"Not the possession," Barton mumbles. "I wasn't there." 

Tony considers this for a moment, then decides it beats him. Maybe he can get an explanation out of Barton when he's sober, but he's not going to get one now, that's for sure. "All right, hang on a minute." He pushes away from the table and heads up to the bar. Jerking a thumb at Barton, he asks, "How much does he owe?" 

The bartender eyes Tony, then calls over a waitress, who presents him with a tab. When the man gives him the total, Tony is staggered. At his worst, he never ran up a tab that big--not without buying rounds for the whole damned place. "How many has he _had?_ " he demands. 

The bartender glances at the tab again. "'Bout thirty-five." 

"Why didn't you cut him off?" he asks angrily. Of all the damned irresponsible-- 

"Ain't my job," the bartender says with a shrug. 

"Oh, really?" Tony snaps. "Son, I have half a mind to buy this place just so I can fire your ass." 

The bartender pales and doesn't say anything as Tony thrusts his credit card at him. He turns even paler when he sees the name on the card. Tony signs the sales slip, snatches his card back, and marches back to Barton. 

"All right, buddy," he says, hauling Barton to his feet. He throws the man's arm around his shoulders and puts his own around his waist. "You're coming home with me." 

Barton doesn't protest, and Tony manages to get him outside and in the car with little difficulty. Once there, though, he faces a dilemma. By rights he probably should take him to the hospital. _Thirty-five whiskeys!_ The guy's probably got alcohol poisoning. He needs medical attention. 

But then, if Tony takes him to the hospital, things might get out of hand. They'll ask for details Tony can't provide. They might bar Tony from seeing him, and even though they aren't close, Tony instinctively knows that won't help matters at all. S.H.I.E.L.D. might also get involved, and that _definitely_ won't help. 

So Tony drives home. He maneuvers Barton out of the car, into the house, and up to the guest room. He tucks him into bed and leaves the door to the guest bathroom wide open so Barton can see it if he needs it and cracks the door to the hallway so he can hear if Barton needs anything, and then he goes to bed himself. 

It's a long time before he's able to get to sleep, though.

* * *

When Clint wakes up, he's got a raging headache and a taste like unwashed gym socks in his mouth. Groaning, he puts a hand over his eyes and tries to get used to consciousness. 

Slowly it dawns on him that this isn't normal. Clint's been something of a gypsy for the last nineteen months, moving from town to town and never staying in the same place more than once, but usually he drinks at a bar until last call or until the bartender throws him out, then staggers down the street until he finds a cheap motel or a convenient alley, whichever comes first, and collapses in exhaustion and oblivion. 

And even then, he still has nightmares. 

But this is a bed, a softer bed than he's used to. The sheets feel clean and cool and make him suddenly conscious of the fact that he hasn't showered since San Diego--or was it San Francisco? There doesn't seem to be anything crawling in it and the blanket isn't that generic floral spread that all motels seem to buy in bulk. This isn't a hotel. Oh, God, did he go home with some girl--or, God forbid, some guy? 

Clint sits up in a panic and instantly regrets it as pain throbs through his head. He groans again and leans back against the headboard, pressing his hand against his forehead and wishing he knew what was going on. 

"You allergic to aspirin?" 

"Uh...no?" Clint squints against the blurred vision, not sure if it's from the pain or the alcohol or both. He can just make out a figure coming towards him--one with dark hair, dark eyes, and dark stubble, holding something in both hands. 

"Good. Here." The person presses a cold glass into one of Clint's hands and drops two tablets into the other. "Take these, and sip slowly. You'll feel better." 

Clint obeys, hoping he's actually being given aspirin and not something else. They certainly have the powdery aspirin taste. And the liquid in the glass proves to be tomato juice. Clint makes a face but keeps sipping. 

"I know," the other person says sympathetically. "It's disgusting, but it helps. Sure learned that the hard way." 

Clint's vision comes into focus, and his eyes widen in surprise. "Stark?" 

Tony Stark gives him that crooked half-smile of his as he sits on the edge of the bed. "Good morning to you, too, Sleeping Beauty." 

Clint groans. "How much did I have to drink last night?" 

Stark's smile disappears. "Thirty-five whiskeys. And it wasn't exactly 'last night.' You've been unconscious for the last twenty-seven hours. I was beginning to worry you weren't going to wake up at all." 

"Oh, my God." Clint sits up straight, ignoring the momentary stab of pain in his head as the color bleeds from his face. "I've never slept that long." 

"From the looks of you, that's because you've been sleeping in places where they wake you up if you do," Stark says bluntly. "I checked on you a couple times to make sure you were still breathing, and yeah, I considered waking you up, but..." His expression softens suddenly. "You looked like you could do with the rest. I don't think you've been sleeping very well, even without the wake-up calls." 

Clint rubs the bridge of his nose. "It's been a hell of a year," he mumbles. 

Stark stares at him for a moment, then takes the glass of tomato juice from his hand and sets it on the nightstand. "Think you can stand on your own?" 

"Yeah," Clint says uncertainly. Stark is probably throwing him out. He can manage, but he doesn't much want to. 

Stark's next words surprise him. "Good. Go take a long, hot shower--you need one, and it'll help, believe me. I'll round up some clean clothes for you. Just leave yours on the bathroom floor." He helps Clint to his feet and steers him towards the bathroom, then leaves. 

Clint wobbles a little, but manages to make it into the shower without too much difficulty. And Stark is right. The shower does help. He stands silently under the spray, letting it pelt his body, for about five minutes before he does anything. There's a bottle of shampoo, soap, shower gel, even shaving cream and a razor. When he at last shuts off the water and steps out, thirty minutes later, he feels slightly closer to human than he did before. 

Stepping out into the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, he sees an outfit folded at the foot of the bed, which has clean sheets on it. Clint wonders who Stark's housekeeper is and makes a note to find out and say thank you. He dresses quickly, wincing as the fabric scrapes over the scar on his side--a long, puckered, white ridge of flesh, relic of a mission gone horribly wrong about five years previously. It healed cleanly, more or less, but every once in a while it does ache a little. And it's been hurting, off and on, ever since Manhattan. 

Just as he's tugging on the shirt, someone knocks at the door. "Come in," he calls, expecting the housekeeper to be returning for something forgotten. 

Instead, to Clint's surprise, Stark walks in. He smiles when he sees him. "Good, you look slightly less like death warmed over. Hungry? I'm not much of a cook, but I can fry bacon and scramble eggs. Or we could get takeaway." 

"Eggs are fine." Clint is slightly bewildered. He follows Stark out of the room and down to the kitchen. Stark waves him to a seat at the kitchen table and hands him a large mug of black coffee while he works at the stove. Ten minutes later, Clint has to admit that Stark can, in fact, fry bacon and scramble eggs. It's the most delicious thing he's tasted in God only knows how long. 

They eat in silence for a moment. Finally, Clint sets down his fork and looks directly at Stark. "Why are you doing this?" 

To his credit, Stark doesn't say anything sarcastic. He sets down his own fork and says quietly, "Because Romanoff was right--you need help, and right now I'm probably the only person who can give it to you. Maybe what _she_ meant was that I was the only one of us on the West Coast, that I happen to live less than ten miles from the bar you were drinking at, but looking at you now, I'm thinking there's more to it than that." 

Clint swallows against an unexpected lump in his throat. "What do you mean?" 

"I've been where you are. Hell, I blew up my whole house once because I was too scared to admit that I was dying." 

Clint stares. He remembers hearing about that, on a hot night in New Mexico when-- 

He stops that train of thought before it can go any further. "I remember that." 

"Thought you might." Stark smiles slightly, but the smile fades instantly. "Listen, if you don't wanna talk, I understand. And if you just don't wanna talk to _me_ , I understand that, too. But...well, I'm here. And I've been there." 

Clint debates for a minute, then sighs. "I just don't know where to start." 

Stark hesitates, then says, "At the bar...I asked you if what you were doing had to do with you being possessed by Loki. And you said--I think your exact words were 'Not the possession. I wasn't there.'" 

Clint can't hold back a ragged gasp of pain. He must have been plastered--he would never say those words sober. Not to a comparative stranger like Stark. To Natasha, maybe, but... 

He closes his eyes, then whispers, "I didn't know. We fought that whole damned battle with Loki and his army...and nobody told me until it was over that he was gone. I didn't know." 

Stark sucks in his breath. "You mean Agent Coulson? Nobody told you about that?" 

"No. Not until after." Tears prick Clint's eyes as he stares at his empty plate. "And it's not like there wasn't time. Tasha had plenty of opportunity to tell me. She just...didn't. She wasn't even the one to tell me, in the end. Cap did." 

Stark doesn't say anything for a moment. Finally, he says, "I know you guys were close. The three of you were a team, weren't you? You, Coulson, and Romanoff?" 

"Yeah," Clint says softly. "He's the one who recruited me for S.H.I.E.L.D. I'd been a merc, freelancing, and a few people had contacted me in the past, but I'd ignored most of 'em. Then he came along one day..." He swallows. "I joined because of him." 

"And Romanoff never told you he was dead? That doesn't seem right." Stark's expression radiates sympathy. 

Clint can't bring himself to defend Natasha. "I...I didn't even get to see his body. As soon as Cap told me, I contacted Fury, and...and he told me they'd already had him cremated, and that he'd wanted his ashes scattered out to sea." The first tear rolls down his face. "I never even got to say goodbye." 

Stark doesn't move for a minute, then stands up. "Come with me. Bring your coffee cup if you want."

Obediently, Clint stands as well and follows him. Stark has an elevator in his house, and a few minutes later they're sitting on the edge of Stark's roof, legs dangling over the edge, watching the sun come up over the trees behind the house. 

"Easier to think up here," Stark says quietly. "You know me, I love technology. But when I've got a really thorny problem, or too much to think about, I come up here. Don't even bring my cell phone." 

"It's beautiful," Clint murmurs. He wouldn't have thought you could see so much nature so close to a populated area, but Stark evidently paid well for privacy. "Makes me think of central Virginia." 

"Is that where you're from?" Stark asks, turning to look at him. 

Clint shakes his head. "No, I'm from New York...I think," he says absently. "But Phil and I spent a weekend out there once, maybe...seven or eight years ago? Something like that? Right after his dad died...he had a hunting cabin up in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and Phil was gonna clean it up and sell it, so I went up there with him to help him out." He chuckles slightly at the memory. "After that weekend, he decided to keep it, though." 

"Good weekend?" 

"The best. Late September. The leaves were changing and the whole mountain was red and gold. The first night we went out and looked at the stars, and God, they were so close you could almost reach out and touch 'em. We went into Charlottesville and found _the_ best coffee shop I've ever been to in my life--place called the Mudhouse--and this used bookstore...Phil was in hog heaven, he loved books. Old books, new books, fiction, nonfiction, didn't matter, if it was the printed word, he loved it. That night we built a fire and made popcorn and curled up on the sofa together and he read one of his new books to me. Next morning we were up early and watched the sun come up over the mountains. It was like the beginning of the world." 

"I can see why he kept it, then. Must've been nice, having a place to go and get away." 

"Yeah...we always said we were gonna go back up there for a week or two, but we never could manage to get the time." Clint's voice is wistful. "One or the other of us always seemed to have a mission going. Best we were ever able to do was a few hours here or there in whatever city we happened to be in." 

Stark eyes him. "How close were the two of you, anyway?" 

Clint suddenly freezes as he realizes how much he's been saying. He and Phil never talk--talked--about it with outsiders. But Stark's been nice to him, nicer than he probably deserves. If anyone ought to know the truth, it's him. Softly, he says, "He's the love of my life." 

Stark nods slightly, turning to look at the treetops again, as though he always suspected as much. "How long? If you don't mind my asking." 

"I don't mind." Clint suddenly wants to talk about it to someone. Anyone. "I told you he was the one who recruited me for S.H.I.E.L.D. I was twenty-two, and I'd been a merc since I was eighteen. Couple of different S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had approached me in the past, and I'd brushed them off. Then he walked into a bar in Chicago and sat down next to me..." He looks up at Stark. "Do you believe in love at first sight?" 

"No," Stark replies promptly. "Lust, maybe, attraction certainly, but not love. Love goes a lot deeper than that and it takes time." 

"I guess that makes sense," Clint allows. "Well, I thought he was attractive, I'm not gonna lie. He told me he was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and for the first time I let myself listen. When he gave me a card and told me to give them a call, I figured, why not? Maybe it'll give me a chance to see him again. So I called, I talked to Fury, he took me on as a trainee. Phil got assigned as my partner--he'd only been on the job four years, I think he was Level Three at that point. Found out later he'd actually _asked_ for me to be assigned to him. He taught me everything he knew. Eventually I started getting solo assignments and he started getting assigned leadership assignments, running whole teams. He qualified Level Four the same day I got my Level Two, two years after we met, and we went out for drinks to celebrate. I got drunk enough that the filters came down and I ended up telling him that I'd fallen in love with him. He leaned over and kissed me." He smiles, tears pricking his eyes slightly. "We've been together ever since." 

Stark smiles as well, sympathy in his eyes. "That's--what, twenty years? Long time with the same person." 

"It would've been even longer without him." Clint stares down the tunnel of a long, dark future completely devoid of Phil Coulson and it scares the hell out of him. 

Stark's smile fades. "I understand. Pepper and I haven't been a couple that long, but..." He swallows. "I thought I'd lost her for twenty minutes, and it almost killed me. I can't imagine what you're going through." 

Clint looks up seriously. "I hope you never have to. I wouldn't wish this on anyone." 

They sit silently for a minute. Finally, Clint says, "I think...I think he'd be pretty mad at me, for what I've been doing over the last year and a half. I've been letting him down." 

"Maybe," Stark agrees. "I didn't know him well enough to know. But...listen, I've got a meeting tonight at seven. You wanna come?" 

Clint looks up in surprise and some confusion at the nonsequitor. "I'm not really much for business meetings." 

"This isn't a business meeting. I turned over the company to Pepper...well, right before I blew up my house, actually. I'm all R &D these days." Stark looks at him seriously. "This is AA." 

Clint is startled. "You--you go to AA?" 

Stark smiles a little sadly. "Eleven months sober. And it's a struggle, I won't deny that. But I promised Pepper I'd get help, and that's what I'm doing." 

"I think...Phil would want me to get help," Clint says in a low voice. 

"So you'll come?" 

"I will." Clint looks out over the treetops, now lit with the morning sun. "They have 'em all over the country, I guess." 

"Yeah, it's a worldwide organization," Stark answers. "You thinking of heading back to New York or D.C. or wherever?" 

Clint stops. He hasn't really thought about it. "I don't know. There's...not a whole lot left for me back there. My apartment in D.C....it wasn't really mine. Not just mine, anyway." 

"Yours and Phil's?" 

"Yeah. And that's assuming it's even still there. I haven't been there in a year and a half. Haven't paid rent on it or anything. The landlady probably threw out all our stuff and rented it out to someone else." Clint feels a slight flutter of panic at the thought. 

Stark looks up. "I've got plenty of room here, you know," he says softly. "You're welcome to stay as long as you need to." 

Clint is touched. And surprised. He and Stark barely know each other, beyond the Avengers Initiative, and he and Stark barely had anything to do with one another during that. But here he's offering Clint a place to stay. 

"I appreciate that," he says. "But...why?" 

Stark shrugs. "Because you're upset, and you need somewhere to go. Because I've been where you are and I don't want to see you get hurt. Because we're teammates. Because I'd like to be friends. Because Phil Coulson was important to you and you were important to him, and I thought of Phil Coulson as a friend, so maybe this is the one thing I can do for him." 

Clint feels tears prick his eyes. "You know...nobody's ever looked out for me," he says softly. "Not until Phil. And not since. Even Tasha doesn't really look out for me. She's...we're friends, but she's got her own stuff to do. She doesn't have time to be looking after me." 

"Time," Stark says, "is something I have in abundance. And honestly, you care about someone, you make time for them." 

"Thanks, Stark." 

"Tony." 

"Then you'd better call me Clint." 

"Deal." Tony holds out his hand and Clint shakes it. 

Clint's coffee has gone cold in his hands, but he doesn't care, it still tastes good. He takes a sip and feels the caffeine get into his brain. "What the hell is in this coffee, anyway?" 

"Nothing special," Tony says. "It's that kind--you know, the one that's fertilized by monkeys?" 

"I've heard of that." Clint has also heard that it's incredibly expensive. People pay as much as a hundred dollars a pound for it. For a kid who has been on occasion so broke that he was reduced to hunting behind the sofa cushions for enough coins to pay the rent on time, it's an unaccustomed luxury. He decides to spin the coffee out as long as he possibly can. 

Tony's eyes twinkle. Perhaps he guesses at what Clint is thinking. "It was a twenty-first birthday gift. I don't drink it very often--just when I'm so incredibly hung over that I need a serious jolt. So you can imagine that I haven't had any since January." He chuckles. "Gonna have to find a new special occasion for it, I guess." 

"You'll think of something." Clint smiles, but there's a flash of pain as he remembers something. Still, he feels like he ought to say it. "Phil used to say that every day you're alive and someone loves you is a special occasion." 

"Phil was right." Tony stares into his coffee cup. "I don't know how Pepper's put up with my ass all these years, even before we were dating." 

"She must've loved you for a long time," Clint says softly. 

"Must have. I know I've loved her for a lot longer than it took me to realize it." Tony sighs, then glances upwards. He smiles. "Look, a jet. Wonder if it's a S.H.I.E.L.D. plane?" 

Clint glances up involuntarily. He squints and focuses on the plane. "Nah, just regular military. S.H.I.E.L.D. planes are kind of bluish-black. It's a very particular shade." 

"You've got good eyes," Tony compliments him. 

"There's a reason I'm called Hawkeye." 

"Yeah, must be." Tony shields his eyes with a hand, following the plane's progress. "They wouldn't send Romanoff on a standard military plane for her mission, would they?" 

"No," Clint answers. "She'd be on a helicopter at worst, and that's only if it's a solo mission. If she's got backup, they'll send her on something bigger." He looks at Tony. "How do you know for sure she's on a mission?" 

"Like I think I told you last night, that was her reasoning behind why she couldn't fly out here and drag you out of that bar herself. Because she had some mission or other." Tony rubs the back of his neck, takes a sip of his coffee. "I didn't get all the details." 

"She wouldn't have given them to you anyway," Clint tells him. "You probably don't have the clearance." 

"Probably not. I'm a consultant. I think I get clearance for missions on a case-by-case basis." 

Clint is surprised that Tony knows how S.H.I.E.L.D. works so well, but he doesn't say that. "Yeah. Tasha and I are both Level Six." 

"What was Phil?" Tony asks. 

"Eight," Clint answers. "Got that designation about the time Fury sent him to talk with you." 

"God, that was four years ago, at least. I guess it doesn't go any higher than that." 

Clint shakes his head. "Not unless you're the director. I imagine there's a lot of stuff that Fury and Hill know that Phil wouldn't have been privy to--but not much." 

Tony nods slowly. "You know, after he died...when Fury was lecturing us...he said he'd lost 'his one good eye.' I think I know what he meant by that. Phil did a lot for him." 

"Did a lot for all of us," Clint says softly. The tears prick at his eyes again. 

Tony looks back up at the plane as it vanishes through the clouds. "I guess Cap's back in New York." 

"More likely D.C.," Clint says, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "I remember Fury saying he had an apartment near HQ." 

"That's right," Tony says. "And I know Banner's back in New Delhi." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah. Drove him to the airport myself. He says it's safer for him to stay out of the way of civilization for a while. I get a letter from him every once in a while updating me on his research. I keep telling him he's welcome back here any time, but so far he's refused." 

"He'll be back. Give him time." Clint doesn't know Bruce Banner well, but he's certainly heard enough about him that he knows that he and Tony are probably cut from the same cloth. 

Tony nods. "You think Thor's back on Asgard or staying in London?" 

"London?" That startles Clint. "What would he be doing in London?" 

"That's where his girlfriend is," Tony says. "You know--Jane Foster, the astrophysicist?" 

"Oh, yeah, Selvig talked about her a lot," Clint says, remembering. "I thought she was in New Mexico, though." 

"Yeah, well..." Tony looks uncomfortable. "After Selvig was...compromised, S.H.I.E.L.D. got her an assignment in London. Trying to get her out of the way. And...didn't you hear about the whole situation in London a couple weeks ago? The alien ship in Greenwich?" 

"No," Clint admits. "I honestly haven't heard much of anything that's happened since Manhattan." 

There's sympathy in Tony's eyes. "I can understand that. Well, Readers' Digest version, there was an alien, and Thor showed up and fought it off. Reports on what he did after that are sketchy, but my money's on him coming back." 

"Love's a pretty powerful thing," Clint agrees. "Future king of Asgard or not, if I'd found the person I loved and knew I was loved back, I'd cross all the bounds of time and space to be by his--or her--side." 

Tony puts a hand on Clint's shoulder for a moment. It's obvious that sympathy doesn't come naturally to him, and it's an awkward movement, but Clint appreciates the gesture. He lowers his hand and adds, "And we're here. So, basically, we know where the whole team is, more or less, except for Romanoff." 

"Yeah," Clint says, thinking of the firey redhead and wondering what's so important that she can't check in with Tony and make sure he's okay. "I wonder what she's up to." 

Tony looks up, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Wanna find out?"


End file.
